


you've had to greet me with goodbye

by orphan_account



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 16:20:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4486422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>trevor visits the club. wade is patient.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you've had to greet me with goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this awesome bit of fanart](http://terrorwatt.tumblr.com/post/122675933981/seal-meme-gaaaaay)!! the fic is rated mature instead of explicit bc the sex here is p low key and is less sex than it is dry humping, but if that's the kind of thing that bothers you then dont read this i guess?
> 
> _title from[505 by arctic monkeys](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iV5VKdcQOJE)_

_Fuck_ Michael Townley. 

The Bodhi goes up on two wheels when Trevor tears into the parking lot of the Vanilla Unicorn, Channel X blaring. He’s buzzing and furious and he wants to punch something. Or fuck something. Or punch a hole in something and then fuck it. He brings his hand down hard on the wheel, barely feeling the sting of the impact as it travels up his arm. 

Ever since The Big One, Michael has been slinking around with him like old times again, picking up tiny jobs in the rural parts of the state for the thrill of it. Normally, Trevor would be ecstatic about even the slightest shadow of the Michael he’d once known rearing his terrible head again. Unfortunately, Michael has a talent for ruining things Trevor would _normally_ be excited about.

In the years past, Trevor and Michael would collide like jousters or prize fighters after a job; violent and explosive and mean, all bites and scratches and adrenaline, but now Trevor can’t even _look_ at Michael after a job without Michael launching into his Good Husband speech. 

And even thought they both know what they want, Michael is infuriating and withholding and keeps reminding him he’s happy, now, and what happened in Sandy Shores (because of course Michael would isolate it and call it ‘what happened in Sandy Shores’ and not ‘what’s been happening between us for almost thirty years’) cannot happen again. Not that that much bothers Trevor--he’s heard this speech from Michael before and he will hear it again, and he knows that soon enough Michael will break and they will fuck and all this will happen all over again.

But in the mean time, he’s tired of waiting. It makes his hands shake. 

Instead, he stalks into the club, shoulders rolling with every step, hips swaying in what the untrained eye would think is an invitation, but anyone with a knowledge of Trevor would see as a threat. And good God, how he wants to be threatening, tonight. He wants to rip a spider apart with his bare hands, he wants to butcher a man in the back of his truck, he wants something, anything, to release the tension in his every muscle that comes from Michael’s particular brand of edging. 

“Trevor!” And Trevor stops and turns his head and tries to smile gently at Wade, but he knows he must look as dangerous as he feels right now because the girls in the booth all look away even as Wade smiles blithely back. “Trevor, I been missin’ you!” Wade says, and Trevor waves his hand at the busty women draped over his pretty protege in a gesture of dismissal, sliding into the booth beside him and yanking the dusty velvet curtains shut around them. Still, his pulse is thrumming high and hard but Wade has always been calming, or at least a good outlet for his anger. 

“I’ve been missin’ you too, Wade.” He says, imitating Wade’s obnoxious accent, but Wade doesn’t even seem to notice. He just smiles, teeth yellow and cracking, cheeks flushed and legs slung open with the casual assuredness of someone totally, stupidly comfortable around a murderous animal.

That’s what Trevor liked about him to begin with, if he’s honest. Michael (who he _is not_ thinking about) is so hard to please, so closed off and secretive, so difficult to crack, and Wade is simple and transparent and open. All he needs to be happy is a strong hit and a candy bar. It’s endearing when Trevor is in the mood to be endeared. 

And tonight, he thinks, he is in the mood. He needs to be cheered and Wade has always managed to do it, even when he doesn’t mean to. Wade is grinning at him like he’s the sun and the moon and the stars, and he’s pressed right up against him in the booth and waiting on Trevor to say something, patient and sweet as always. 

“How have you been, my clown-loving friend?” Trevor asks, fishing in his pockets for his pipe. Wade shrugs one shoulder impassively. 

“I’ve been alright. Where you been, Trevor? I ain’t seen you around much since De Santa and the other ones started comin’ around.” And Trevor expects at least for Wade to pout or frown, but when he glances at him, he looks curious more than anything. Normally he enjoys the fire of someone’s jealousy, like Ron’s, but it’s relaxing to look into Wade’s face and know he means exactly what he says. He’s saying he hasn’t seen Trevor much, and that’s all.

It’s Trevor’s turn to shrug, then. “I’ve been here and there.” He says noncommittally. Wade doesn’t stop looking at him even as he retrieves his Tina and starts pouring the pretty crystals into the bowl of his pipe, apparently waiting on something more concrete from Trevor. He’s pulled away from him a little, sitting back so that only their knees are touching under the glittering plastic table. 

“I’m here now, ain’t I?” Trevor asks, and Wade nods, leaning back into Trevor when he takes a lighter to the bulb, inhaling the smoke in one slow, deep hit. The smell of burning chemicals is strong in their booth but when it wafts out it’ll be covered by the cheap perfume of the girls and the spilled alcohol in the carpet and the sweat of the customers. And anyways, he’s owns this damn place and who gives a shit if he likes to indulge every now and then?

He passes the pipe to Wade, who brings it to his mouth with slow reverence and calm, his lips barely touching the glass before he’s inhaling like it’s his first breath of clear air in all his life. Trevor watches, studying the line of his jaw and the slope of his nose. Meth isn’t a gentle drug. Wade is only twenty-three and already his face is cut with deep lines and sagging skin, bruises and scars covering his neck and shoulders (and more of him, Trevor knows, hidden under his stupid hoodie and baggy shorts) but it doesn’t disgust Trevor. It intrigues him. Being the man that he is--that is, a bad man--he has always had a soft spot for the romantic sparkle in the eyes of a desperate addict, the signs on their faces as plain as day that they love the high more than their own bodies. It holds a sort of majesty for him, and Wade is as lovely as a deforested mountain range as far as ravaged natural wonders go. 

He didn’t come to Trevor smooth-skinned and untouched by the evils of this world, but he had come close. And Trevor had taken him into his arms and shown him pain and pleasure and everything he could think of because it’s fun and because it made him feel something close to exhilaration and he’d been chasing that phoenix since the death of his--

No. He looks at Wade again, who’s smile has grown sharper, who’s eyes seem to glitter in the low red-tinted light as he holds the pipe out to him. Trevor takes it and inhales shallower than he intends to, passing the pipe back and looping his fingers in Wade’s belt loops, tugging him forward. Wade misunderstands, giggling softly and leaning in to kiss him, which Trevor takes, but he wants something more. 

He tugs a little harder and Wade gets the message, climbing into his lap and twining his arms around Trevor’s shoulders, grinding against him with lazy satisfaction. They pull apart so Trevor can hit the pipe again, but at the last moment he changes his mind and hands it back to Wade. Wade frowns a little, his head tilted in wordless query.

“You do it.” Trevor grunts, and Wade understands what he means from a full year now of Trevor’s strange whims. He inhales deep, holding it in for a second as his eyes flutter shut. Trevor stretches up a little, tilting his head back as Wade leans down, blowing his lungful of smoke into Trevor’s open mouth in one long exhale. 

Wade leans a little closer without meaning to, and by the time the haze has cleared they’re nearly nose to nose. Wade is blushing, eyes watering with the sharpness of the cut Trevor’s nailed for them.

“Compliments to the Chef.” Trevor mutters, and Wade laughs quietly at this old not-quite-joke, something they’ve passed between them as more a marker of being part of a group, part of a tribe, than anything actually humorous. Wade keeps flicking his eyes to Trevor’s parted lips and Trevor isn’t sure if it’s for want of a kiss or a hit but Wade will get both and more, if it’s up to him. 

They keep going like that for a while, inhaling and blowing into each other’s open mouths, only stopping to laugh or grind or kiss each other, barely paying attention to the passing of time or coming and going of people in the club around them. Their booth is hidden from the world, from space and gravity and anything else that would keep them on the ground. Trevor is in a good mood. Wasn’t he always? He feels like he was. He can’t remember for sure, but he stops trying to when Wade drags his free hand to his crotch and ruts against him with a sly, secret smile and whispers that he’s so hard, Trevor is so hot, this crystal is so _good_.

Wade is high, Trevor can tell by the way he keeps drumming his fingers on the back of his neck, and that means he’s going to start talking about philosophy. Wade is actually pretty damn smart when it comes down to it--maybe not street smart like Trevor, or book smart like Trevor, but he’s some kind of smart that gives him a weird and concerning insight as to people’s hidden desires and ethics. It’s been something Trevor has played to his advantage before, getting Wade lit and then dragging him along to meet potential allies to get a strong read on them. 

Trevor wants to cut Wade off at the pass before he gets too chatty, before he looks at him and kisses his cheek too gently and tells him to let it go, to stop thinking of Michael, so he hooks a hand around the back of his neck and drags him into a kiss, their teeth clacking together loudly as they shove their tongues down each other’s throats, squirming and writhing together despite the layers between them. Trevor considers shoving a hand in Wade’s shorts and grasping him, maybe jerking them off together, but it’s too quick, too easy. He wants something exhausting and difficult and painful. He wants to work hard for something unsatisfactory. He wants to revel in the burn of not-quite-enough. 

And Wade is still smiling, lips quirked against Trevor’s and he’s just barely rocking in Trevor’s lap, providing friction that’s painful instead of delicious and it’s perfect, perfect, perfect. Trevor moves to meet him in short, hard thrusts that make the waves of Wade’s rolling hips seem more stormy than gentle sea and normally it would be hard to come like this with so little stimulation, but he can almost taste the edge of his orgasm with the drugs in his system and the sweet, high music of Wade’s voice in his ear as he keens and moans so softly that only they can hear it in their secluded, secret bubble. 

Wade is panting, or Trevor is panting, it doesn’t really matter, but someone is making noise and the harsh, hot slide of denim on denim is scratchy and uncomfortable and it’s exactly what Trevor needs. Wade is sweating and Trevor is groaning, sliding his hands under Wade’s waistband to grip the cheeks of his ass and guide the bucking of his hips, and leaning up to bite and lick and kiss at his strong, well-defined jaw, his chapped lips burned by the stubble there. 

He thinks distantly that it’s a good thing he didn’t meet Wade until just this year, because a boy this pretty and honest and easy to read would have been too simple for him to fall in love with when he was younger, when he was someone who didn’t yet know all the emotion the name Michael could hold. Wade now at least grasps so little of Trevor’s attention that it is possible he will someday be able to get away, to become a person who is not a plaything for darker, meaner people than he. 

But that day is not today. Wade is whining softly and Trevor can feel the vibration of it when he presses the flat of his tongue to Wade’s throat, and when Wade whimpers that he’s going to come, Trevor nips at his skin and tells him to do it, to let go, to give in to the feeling because he isn’t one of those men like Michael who needs to control and withhold and deny.

He will give and give and give.


End file.
